True Story

My name is Mike Henkle, and I’m a devout Mormon from Provo, Utah. I know that some of my convictions may upset more liberal people, but I’m only asking you to keep an open mind. Because just this past week something happened to my family and me, and it’s something that all of us, on each side of the political divide, need to think about.

Beth and I have been married for almost eighteen years, and we’ve got three great kids, which, in Mormon terms, means we’re barren. But give us time. Last week, for a sort of second honeymoon, we loaded the whole family into our Jeep Wagoneer and headed East, to Massachusetts, to visit my brother Steve and his beautiful wife, Jen. I didn’t realize at the time that Massachusetts is a state where gay marriage is now legal.

So we’re driving through upstate New York, and getting closer to Massachusetts, and we’re all singing one of our favorite travel hymns, “Jesus Is Under the Hood.” And, as we’re singing, my kids are also trying to spot license plates from different states, and seven-year-old Ethan shouts, “I see a new one! Look, Daddy, on that license plate it says ‘Massachusetts—The Anal Sex State’!”

“Is it something the Pilgrims brought over from England?” Ethan asked.

I don’t like to lie to my children, so I replied, “Yes, it is.”

“Like scurvy,” Beth said.

As we crossed the border into Massachusetts, everything looked just beautiful, with all the quaintness of picture-postcard New England. We passed a small town square, and I noticed that a work crew was removing a life-size bronze statue of Paul Revere, which a plaque said had been erected in 1820. The workmen were replacing Paul Revere with a more contemporary statue, a tall figure in a simple black suit, who I thought was Abraham Lincoln.

“Look at that, kids,” I said, pointing to the statue. “There’s Lincoln, one of our greatest Presidents.”

“That’s not Lincoln,” Beth said, as we drove closer to the statue. “It’s Rachel Maddow.”

I was beginning to feel apprehensive. We stopped at a roadside stand to buy some cider and apples as a gift for my brother and his family. Amid the colorful bins of dried corn and shelves full of maple syrup was a hand-lettered sign reading “50% Gay Discount.” When I went to pay for our bushel basket of wholesome fare, I asked the cashier if I’d really pay only half price if I were gay.

“Of course,” she replied. “It’s the law.”

My wife looked at me. “Pay for it, Sharon,” she told me.

“Sharon?” I said.

“We’ve been together for eighteen years now,” Beth told the cashier, “although some people think we look more like sisters.”

“Why did you do that?” I asked Beth, as we loaded the produce into our trunk.

“It’s a big discount.”

“But I don’t look like a woman,” I protested. “Do I?”

“Should we get some more beets?” Beth asked.

Now I was really confused. As we pulled into Steve and Jen’s driveway, I saw that their mailbox was painted with rainbow stripes. “Steve, what’s that all about?” I asked, as we shook hands.

“If I didn’t do that, we’d never get any mail,” he explained. “The mail carrier would just throw it into the street.”

As I admired Steve’s new carport, many happy-looking same-sex couples walked by, some of them holding hands.

“Don’t say anything,” Steve whispered. “Just smile and wave.”

“What would happen if I didn’t?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “there’s this perfectly nice couple who live next door to us, Ted and Eric. But last week I mistakenly asked Ted about his partner, and Ted got a little chilly and said, ‘He’s not my partner; he’s my husband.’ And that night our house got egged.”

“Oh, my Lord,” I said.

“Smile and wave,” Steve said, as five more gay couples, all pushing strollers, moved along the sidewalk. “And when you look at their kids,” he cautioned me, “be careful, because sometimes they’re adopted, or from donor sperm. So don’t say, ‘Gee, your baby looks just like you.’ Instead, say, ‘My, what a wonderful nontraditional family, and what a real baby.’ ”

Once we were inside, Steve and Jen pulled all the curtains shut.

“Sometimes we get gawkers,” Jen said. “They don’t see many straight people around here.”

“This sweet couple at the mall, Amber and Jessalyn, they took our picture,” Steve said. “They said they were going to e-mail it to Amber’s mom in Brookline, because she collects pictures of straight people. Sometimes she puts them on mugs.”

I was growing seriously disturbed. “Come on,” I told everyone. “We’d better get to church.”

We all piled into Steve’s minivan, and as we rolled through town we passed a stately Federal-style brick building with a sign reading “Gaychovia.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Since the bailout,” Steve said, “most of the banks here went gay.”

“And look at the money,” Jen said, showing us the coins in her change purse. Barney Frank’s profile was on the quarter, and Neil Patrick Harris was on the dime.

Recommended Stories

As the years passed, Tom grew more entrenched in his homelessness. He was absorbed in lofty fantasies and private missions, aware of the basest necessities and the most transcendent abstractions, and almost nothing in between.